


that roller derby AU

by mercuryhatter



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roller Derby, F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:38:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Basher" Bahorel, frequently injured but shockingly resilient derbygirl, and EMT Feuilly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Basher

Bahorel was a big girl. Big in a way that made people underestimate her sometimes— at least until they had to try whipping a jammer past her on the track. Or until her fist connected with their face. But that happened more frequently off the track after her coach finally threatened to bench her for three months if she got any more penalties. Bahorel was big, and she was fast, and she was ruthless. She would slam you on your ass with a broad smile on her face, and then she’d wait for your head to stop spinning so she could offer you a wrist-guarded hand to help you back up. (Unless you were that one fucker who made the mistake of questioning Jeannie “Knight of Flowers” Prouvaire’s womanhood within Bahorel’s earshot. That time, Bahorel had shoved the offender over with a shoulder to the back, then hit the ground, kneepads cracking like gunshots on the floor to either side of her, and she hadn’t stopped hitting until her entire team dragged her away.)

So no one could say that Renée “Basher” Bahorel wasn’t formidable. But she wasn’t indestructible by a long shot— and that’s how her best friend ended up being the grumpy ginger EMT who, being new, was sent on standby to all the derby bouts.

Although, if Bahorel thought about it, she’d realize that the EMT hadn’t been new for several months now, and yet she still showed up to every bout.

Her name was Angeline Feuilly, but Bahorel, usually squinting up at her with a dopey grin and a probable concussion, liked to call her l’ange de la mort.

“That’s a ridiculous nickname,” Feuilly told her, frowning down at her as she carefully removed Bahorel’s helmet. “I haven’t let you die yet, although it’s not for lack of trying on your part.”

“You’re so pretty when you’re disapproving,” Bahorel said dreamily. “So ginger, too. Do you color that hair or is it possibly on fire…?”

Feuilly swatted Bahorel’s hand away from her hair, though her lips twitched up a bit at the corners. Bahorel saw this and crowed triumphantly, struggling to get out of Feuilly’s iron grip to catch Jeannie’s attention.

“Flowers! Hey, Flowers! I made l’ange smile!”

Jeannie cheered, bouncing on her toe stops from where she stood with the rest of the team.

“You did not,” Feuilly said irritably. “Sit still, goddammit, I need to make sure you don’t have any neck injuries— come on, shouldn’t you know this drill by now?”

“You just don’t want to admit you smiled,” Bahorel said, attempting to point an accusing finger but ending up just waving her wrist guard in Feuilly’s face, who swatted it away again.

“That’s because I didn’t, smart one,” she said.

“Ah, but you thought about it,” Bahorel insisted, and there was really no arguing with her smug grin.

“Smug asshole,” Feuilly grumbled. “Look at me so I can see how bad you damaged what little brains you have this time.”

“You know, it’s really not accurate to judge how my eyes look normally when they’re looking at you— ow!” Feuilly was wearing her own smug grin now, having just flashed her penlight directly into Bahorel’s eyes without warning.

“Amazingly, you’re fine,” she said at last, stuffing her penlight back in her breast pocket and handing Bahorel’s helmet back to her. “If I hadn’t seen you under an MRI before I’d say your skull is actually made of steel.”

“Adamantium,” Bahorel supplied helpfully. “I’m Wolverine.”

“No, you’re Basher, and you’re completely insufferable, and hey, you’re also benched for the next five jams,” Feuilly said with a smirk. Her hand was still curved around Bahorel’s face where she’d placed it to check her pupils, and she suddenly seemed to realize this, pulling back with a faint flush.

“Good,” Bahorel declared, grinning like a shark. Feuilly looked surprised.

“Good?”

“Yeah, well, usually I’d call you a fucking asshole and grumble a lot, because you are a fucking asshole and I’m perfectly fine to play, but you know, I don’t think I’m really all that opposed to sitting on the sidelines while you ah, monitor my vitals or something.”

Feuilly flushed again, scowling at Bahorel, who smiled as innocently as she could with blood in her teeth— she’d broken the skin of her lip when she’d landed on her chin. Leaning in close, she raised herself on her kneepads to whisper in Feuilly’s ear:

“And then I’m going back out there, and I’m winning this bout for you, and we’ll go celebrate after, you got that, ange?”

“Yeah,” Feuilly said breathlessly. “Oh yeah, I got that.”


	2. Knight of Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeannie "Knight of Flowers" Prouvaire and her cat the Lioness, and Bahorel's vague terror of them both.

“Basher, I swear on all the goddesses ever to exist, if you are on my bed in your boots again I’m going to feed you to the Lioness!” Jeannie Prouvaire had schooled her voice into something light and fluttery for her own reasons, but sometimes, when she was serious or angry or simply loud, it would crash into a clear, strong alto, with tones like a singer belting a clean note. It did so now as she frowned down at the dusty tracks scattered over the wood floor, following them to the bedroom.

 

Bahorel had this nasty habit of never taking off her shoes, ever. Jeannie wasn’t sure if it was out of some form of Bahorelean spite or if she really did just forget, but after a year of living with the other woman and always having had her staunch stance against shoes in the house, much less on her furniture, Jeannie was leaning towards the former.

 

“Oh, no, anything but leaving me to the mercy of that abomination of a feline,” Bahorel moaned, stretching like a feline herself; being half-asleep did nothing to hinder her lexicon of what she called Five-Dollar Law School Words. Despite all her efforts to hide it, Bahorel was as skilled with words as she was on the track or in a bar fight.

 

“And don’t call my cat an abomination!” Jeannie huffed, launching herself onto Bahorel and landing with her knees square in the small of Bahorel’s back. Bahorel shrieked and flailed underneath her, but Jeannie spread her full, considerable height over the other woman, situating her mouth directly by Bahorel’s left ear. It was pierced in three places, and she tugged threateningly on the center piercing with her teeth.

 

“Shoes. Now.”

 

Bahorel muffled a sound that might have been a whimper in the pillow, and kicked off both her work boots, although Jeannie winced when they each hit the floor.

 

“Thank you,” she said primly, rolling gracefully off of Bahorel and onto the floor. She walked across the room, slender hips swaying, as she gathered up her waist-length braid and began to wrap it around and around her head. Pausing in front of the vanity, she pinned the braid in place, then threw up the window sash to reach the flower box hanging on the other side. Bahorel protested loudly, throwing her hands over her face at the light, but Jeannie ignored her, selecting flowers carefully to weave into the crown of her braid.

 

“Bout tonight,” she said, grinning, and the moment the last flower was in place and that grin spread over her features (the grin of a queen who knew she could conquer nations), she ceased to be Jeannie. She was the Knight of Flowers now, even if she was still in the pale blue jeans that she’d written Neruda lines all over in purple sharpie and the loose red sweater that Bahorel was pretty sure was actually hers. The transformation never ceased to amaze Bahorel, who was always Basher to some extent or another; with Jeannie it was a completely different aspect of herself, something still wholly Prouvairean but somehow amplified. Bahorel really could picture her in shining silver armor, even if what she was donning now were fishnet stockings and scuffed black kneepads.

 

Bahorel tore her eyes away and finally got out of bed herself, pausing next to the Knight to brush fingers across her waist and smile at her. The Knight smiled back, tugging on one of Bahorel’s springy curls.

 

“Go get ready,” she said sternly, and even if Bahorel would have had any objections, those tones were ones that would not have accepted them.

The effect was only slightly ruined when a huge tawny cat entered the room, giving a look of utmost disdain to Bahorel before wrapping herself firmly around the Knight’s ankles and starting to chew on her stockings.


End file.
